


In The Dark

by DasWarSchonKaputt



Category: Glee
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-20
Updated: 2014-06-14
Packaged: 2018-01-16 09:55:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1343260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DasWarSchonKaputt/pseuds/DasWarSchonKaputt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So Blaine dreams of death. It’s a thing. He has therapy, though, and sleeping pills, and a long-suffering roommate sworn to stop him from strangling himself in his sleep.</p><p>It’s not ideal, but he deals.</p><p>And then the dreams start to come true.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Catalysis

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, so this happened. I would link you to the thing I saw that inspired it, but it ended up turning out so completely and utterly different from what I had planned that it actually bares little resemblance to the initial idea.
> 
> So, uh, enjoy.

_"The body of Mercedes Jones was found in the early hours of this morning, after the teenager had been reported missing nearly forty hours earlier—”_

The glass slips from between his fingers and smashes on the floor.

* * *

He awakes to darkness and the smell of musk. There’s a heaviness to his breathing – a stifling, stale quality to the air around him – and, as he realises with a stab of panic, he doesn’t know where he is.

Cell-phone. He needs his cell-phone. Where—pockets. In his jean pocket. It should be there; it’s _always_ there.

His pockets are empty.

His hands fly out from his sides and smack into something hard and carpeted. He can feel his breathing shallow out even further; he’s _trapped._ He doesn’t know where he is and he’s _trapped._

Hysteria bubbles up inside of him and out of his mouth. He screams and screams and screams, but he _knows_ that no one can hear him. He has to get out – _somehow_ , _anyhow_ , no matter _what_. The sides of the—where is he? Carpeted sides, small, box-shape… He’s in a car trunk.

Oh God, he’s going to _die._

* * *

**72 hours earlier**

* * *

Kurt doesn’t have many friends.

It’s not so much a case of his sexuality – although he’d be lying if he said that wasn’t a factor – but rather a case of his personality. Abrasive, he’s heard people say. Vindictive. Poisonous.

They’re not that far off.

“You’re just kind of angry – all the time,” Mercedes explains, rolling her eyes and locking her phone screen. Kurt’s her best friend – the guy who’ll be sitting next to her in a jail cell if they ever end up there – but she’s not going to try and delude herself into thinking that he’s any more of a people person than she is.

Kurt raises his eyebrows. “I’m angry,” he echoes flatly.

She sighs. “Not just angry,” she expands, looping their arms together. “Bitter too.” She shakes her head, an affectionate smile playing at the corners of her full-lips. “You’re too young to be bitter, Kurt.”

“You’re never too young to be bitter,” Kurt retorts, smiling a bit now. “Isn’t that a proverb?”

Mercedes shakes her head. “I think you’re mixing idioms again,” she tells him, then frowns. “Why are you so bothered by this all of a sudden, though? Normally you couldn’t give a damn what anyone else thinks.”

Kurt exhales through his nose. “Something Finn said.”

“Something Finn said.” Mercedes eyes narrow. The relationship between Kurt and his step-brother has always been strained, in part due to the fact that ninety per cent of the time, Finn has absolutely no idea that he’s putting his foot in his mouth. Most of the time, it’s homophobic dribble and Kurt can deal with it just fine on his own. If something’s bothering him, though—“Do I need to cut a bitch?”

Kurt laughs freely and Mercedes feels herself relax.

“It wasn’t offensive,” he assures calmly. “Just—made me think.”

Mercedes snorts. “About what?”

“The meaning of life,” Kurt deadpans, and, _oh, okay._ He doesn’t want to talk about it. That’s fine.

Mercedes gently shoves him. “Didn’t you hear? It’s forty-two.”

Kurt gives her a blank look – obviously, the joke isn’t hitting home for him – and Mercedes lets him shift the topic of conversation elsewhere. She won’t push the issue; she learned long ago that her and Kurt’s friendship isn’t based upon the tearing open of wounds that are best left alone to heal. That’s just not how either of them – read: Kurt – works.

It’s been one year since she found Kurt crying in his car on the edge of town – six months since she removed all the sharp objects in Kurt’s bedroom and bathroom – and she’s no closer to figuring out what happened to Kurt than she was at the start. Kurt doesn’t talk about it, and a part of Mercedes – the part that selfishly cowers in the corner while beefy jocks harass Kurt – doesn’t want him to.

She can’t decide if it’s fortunate or unfortunate that the rest of her has decided not to dig deeper.

* * *

It took Mercedes nearly three weeks to realise that the reason that Kurt is constantly over at her house after school is because he doesn’t want to go home. Kurt never brings it up, so neither does Mercedes, who’s more concerned with the fact that her parents really hate her hanging out with Kurt. It’s rightfully earned its place on the growing list of things they never talk about.

There’s something different about Kurt now, Mercedes thinks. It’s not that he’s lost his spark, but he fights with ice and spite now, rather than burning anger and bitterness. Subdued, she wants to say, but it’s not. He’s not.

He still has every last bit of his fire and hate, but it’s like it’s been overpowered by something. Mercedes catches him sometimes, staring – just _staring_ – at the jocks and bullies as they pass them, lips pressed together into a daring half-smirk, half-glower, eyes so cold and emotionless it’s like he’s telling them to just _try._

They don’t try.

But that’s just another one of the things they don’t talk about.

“Oh my _God,_ ” Kurt says, flopping down on Mercedes bed like it’s the only place he feels at ease. It probably is. “French today was just _puerile._ ”

Mercedes is about to roll her eyes, but catches herself. “That’s what you get,” she informs him flatly, “for taking an elective in a language you are fluent in.”

“I thought it’d be an easy A,” Kurt admits. “I didn’t take into account the four hours of my life it would waste each week.”

Mercedes laughs, easy and free, already crossing her room to look through her DVD boxsets of _Project Runway._ At least that’s one thing that hasn’t changed; Kurt still wears his designer clothes like they’re armour.

“So are we going with season six, or—”

The sound of a car pulling up in Mercedes’ driveway cuts through her question, and both she and Kurt freeze on the spot.

Kurt meets her gaze. “I thought you said your parents were out until late tonight,” he states, mouth forming the words slowly.

“I thought they were,” Mercedes mutters.

“You’re grounded.”

“I know.”

“Your mom hates me.”

“I _know_.”

“We’re _so_ screwed.”

Mercedes shakes her head. “No,” she rushes out. “No. You need to—” She searches the room, before throwing her closet door open. “Hide in here.”

Kurt looks at the closet apprehensively. “Are you trying to be witty?” he asks, eyebrow shooting up.

Outside, a car door slams.

Mercedes doesn’t budge. “Just get in the damn closet, Kurt.”

Kurt looks for a second like he might fight it further, but he just glares at her. Wordlessly, he stands up and slots himself into the closet.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” Mercedes exhales. “I’ll be right back.”

Kurt just gives her a hard look.

“I promise,” she assures, and then shuts the door. As she turns to bound down the stairs, she could swear that she hears Kurt’s breath hitch.

* * *

It’s dark in the closet.

_(dark, dark, dark, can’t see, smoke, burning, help, scream, warmer, and warmer, and can’t see, can’t breathe, dark)_

Body rigid, Kurt pushes every last scrap of air out of his lungs. He feels his muscles automatically relax, and then tense up again when he breathes in. Stay calm. He can do this.

_(can’t, can’t, can’t, don’t, help me, please, can’t, won’t, no)_

Focus, Kurt. Breathe. In. Out. In. Out. In—

“What are you doing here?”

Kurt holds his breath at the sound of Mercedes voice. Straining his ears, he can barely make out the faraway sounds of a muffled reply and then—

“Oh my G—”

There’s a dull thud, like a body slumping down on the floor. Kurt can feel every last one of his muscles twitching, instincts warring. Breath held tight, Kurt hesitates and then he’s bursting out of the closet, stumbling over his limbs and throwing himself out of the room.

He sprints across the landing and thunders down the stairs, crashing into the hallway and seeing—

A closed front door.

Mercedes has gone.

Kurt’s hands are still shaking when he finally manages to dial 911.

* * *

This is the fifth time this week that Blaine has woken up screaming.

Wes is a good roommate. Due to his slight inclination towards OCD tendencies, he’s tidy and, because his girlfriend lives half a world away in Germany, he doesn’t have any late night visitors that require the room to be cleared for them. He’s quick in the shower, never uses up all the hot water, and has mild and inoffensive tastes in music.

This, though? This pushes the boundaries of Wes being a good roommate.

Because all he wants to do to Blaine right now is throttle him.

He gets it – Blaine’s somewhat fucked up in the head. He’s on anti-psychotics and anti-depressants and anti-stimulants and whole cocktail of other substances _;_ they all got the talk back when the raven-haired singer joined Dalton. It doesn’t make Blaine any less of a decent student or any less of an amazing singer, but it does impinge on his quality as a roommate.

Wes has a calculus test tomorrow morning and if he doesn’t get at least one night’s good sleep beforehand, someone is going to die.

He’s fully prepared to vocalise this when he notices it: Blaine’s not waking up.

_Fuck._ He’s still dreaming.

Wes rolls out of bed and sleepily traipses across the room. He reaches Blaine’s bedside and kneels beside the other student’s head.

“Blaine,” he whispers harshly. “Blaine, wake-up.”

It doesn’t work. To be honest, Wes didn’t really expect it to do so.

Exhaling deeply, Wes places both of his hands on each of Blaine’s shoulders and gives the other boy a sharp jolt. “Blaine!” he calls, louder this time, because, let’s face it: the entire dorm is probably already awake by now.

Blaine bolts against his grip, eyes snapping open, gasping in air like he’d been suffocating. Chest heaving, eyes darting, Blaine looks half-crazed.

“What happened?” Blaine rasps out, breaths settling down. He pushes up and out of Wes’s hold so that he’s sat up in bed.

“Blaine, you were having a nightmare,” Wes explains slowly and watches it all come crashing back to Blaine. Having roomed with Blaine for nearly a year now, Wes is far more familiar with the haunted look that crosses his friend’s face whenever Blaine remembers a nightmare than he ever wanted to be.

After giving Blaine a few moments to gather himself together, Wes sighs. “This is the fifth time this week, Blaine,” he says, “and I get it, okay. You’re not supposed to room on your own in case you strangle yourself in your sleep or something, but _please,_ Blaine. I have a calculus test tomorrow and I _need_ sleep. Can I _please,_ in the name of mercy, go sleep on David’s floor for the rest of tonight?”

The glazed over look in Blaine’s eyes snaps out of place. He blinks at Wes. “Yeah,” he agrees easily. “Sure. No, no seriously. I’m so sorry about this. It’s not normally this bad, I swear.”

“I know,” Wes assures him. “I’m not going to ask for a new roommate,”—even if that would be the _smart_ route to choose—“I just need some sleep before I go and face a three hour maths exam.”

“No, I get it, I really do,” Blaine insists. “I just—yeah.”

“What are the dreams about anyway?” Wes asks curiously as he gathers up his duvet and pillow.

Blaine raises his eyebrows – and that is a lot of eyebrow to raise – face twisting into something that practically screams _judgement commencing._ “You’re seriously asking me what my chronic nightmares from which I consistently wake up screaming are about?”

Wes’s brain catches up with him. “Ah. Yeah. You’re right. That was insensitive.” He runs a hand through his short hair. “Just—maybe look into seeing a therapist?”

Blaine snorts. “I do,” he says.

And that—

Doesn’t actually surprise Wes one bit. Blaine’s parents are not of the school of thought that therapy is for the weak, and if what Wes has heard is true – that Blaine’s been getting these dreams ever since he watched his brother die when he was five years old – then Blaine must have been in a lot of therapy over the years.

“Yeah, well.” God _damn it_ , Wes is too tired for this. “Get a better one.”

Blaine actually laughs this time. “I did,” he retorts easily. At Wes’s challenging eyebrow, he elaborates. “I currently see the number four psychologist in the United States.”

“Oh.” There’s not much more to say to that. Wes pulls his pile of bedding up to his chest and moves to back out of the door when—

“Death.”

Wes freezes. “What?” he asks.

“My dreams,” Blaine clarifies. “They’re about death.”

It’s not like he really has anything that he can say in reply to that. Wes finds himself stumped for words, except for, “That’s screwed up, man.”

The moment the words leave his mouth, it hits Wes just how tactless he’s being. Oh God, he’s never going to live this down when he’s properly awake and rested. Right now, though, he can’t bring himself to care – a stance that is reinforced when Blaine laughs once more.

“So I’ve been told.” Blaine settles back down in bed. “Go get some sleep. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Wes chances one last look back at Blaine, but it seems that the other boy is fine. Quietly, he pulls the door to, watching as the sliver of light beneath it flicks off.

He sighs, throws his bundle of bedclothes over his shoulder and marches down the corridor to David’s room.

He honestly should be more surprised when he wakes up again that night, two hours later, Blaine’s raw throaty screams echoing throughout the entire boarding house.

* * *

**48 hours earlier**

* * *

Kurt is a good kid.

Burt read somewhere that kids who lose a parent are forced to grow up too fast – they mature quicker, don’t fit in, never really mesh with other kids their age – and looking at Kurt, he can’t help but feel that this is true. After his wife passed, Kurt picked up the slack on a lot of things that Burt was otherwise clueless about – and Burt found himself doing a lot of things he wasn’t exactly comfortable with – but they were okay. They got through it.

He doesn’t really know how Kurt’s supposed to get through this, though.

“You don’t have to go, you know,” he tells his son, for all the good it will do him. “I know missing school feels like running away to you, but you really don’t have to go.”

Kurt straightens a loose hair, eyes fixed forward on the vanity mirror in front of him. “I’m going.”

Burt sighs. “I know,” he says, because he does. This is one of those battles that he’s never going to win; if Kurt says he’s going to school, Kurt is damn well going to school. Burt would like to see someone – anyone – try and stop his son.

“But I don’t think it’s a good idea,” he adds.

Kurt sighs and drops his hands from his hair. He turns around to Burt, posture poised for a confrontation. “Look,” he says. “I’m _fine,_ okay? And even if I’m not, the last thing I—” Kurt lets out a shuddering, frustrated breath of air. “I need distraction. I need to just _do things._ School’s good for that. Finn’ll be there; the can look out for me. Just—I need to go to school.”

Burt wonders if Kurt knows that he won the battle over half an hour ago, but reaches out and grips his son’s shoulder all the same. “You call me, okay?” he tells him. “If you even _think_ of changing your mind, you call me.”

Shifting on his feet, Kurt nods. “I’m—sorry, Dad. I know I’m not supposed to be putting stress on y—” Kurt breaks off when he sees the look on his father’s face. “Right. I know. Being stupid. Got it.”

Finn enters the room and Burt steps aside to let Kurt leave. “Call me, Kurt. I mean it.”

Kurt nods and follows his step-brother out of the room.

* * *

Despite the rock ballad blasting out of the car’s speakers, it feels stifling quiet. Kurt turns away from his brother’s face to lean his head against the car window and gaze out at the shifting scenery.

“So,” Finn starts, the syllable coming out stunted and short.

“So,” Kurt echoes disinterestedly.

Finn shifts his weight around on the driver’s seat, hands gripping the steering wheel tightly. “When you were talking to the police, you didn’t…”

Kurt turns in his seat, eyes boring into Finn. It makes Finn want to squirm.

“I didn’t … what?”

“You didn’t tell them about…” Finn drifts off. “You know.” He shrugs.

Kurt scrutinises him for a second before he shakes his head and turns away once more. “No,” Kurt says. “No, I didn’t.”

Finn feels every muscle in his body relax. Okay. Good. Fine.

There’s something dangerous in Kurt’s eye, however, when he speaks next. “Should I have?”

It’s not an innocent question; it’s a threat.

Clenching his jaw, Finn resolves to focus on the road in front of him. “No.”

* * *

There are very few things on this earth that Kurt hates more than psychologists. After his mother passed, his father put him into grief counselling – made him go to the sessions until Kurt told him that he’d sooner run away from home than go to another one.

The clinical method of detached dissection – it just doesn’t work for Kurt. He’s tried it. It just makes things worse.

Dealing with things for Kurt is synonymous with putting them behind him and moving on. Experts may call it unhealthy, but he hasn’t opened his veins in school bathroom yet, so he considers it a functional method.

If it works, it works. Leave it at that. Better yet, leave him alone.

That said, Kurt really, really, really doesn’t want to hate Emma Pillsbury. She’s nice. Tries hard to be there for students. She’s content to leave things alone just as much as she is to prod and prod and prod.

It sits well with Kurt. Well, it does, until she becomes convinced that the best thing for Kurt to do after half-witnessing his best friend’s _kidnapping_ is to sit down and have a chat with her about it.

He’s trying really, really, really hard not to hate Emma Pillsbury, but she’s making it so god-damned difficult.

“I already talked about all of this with the police,” Kurt repeats for the fifth time after she asks after his friend’s absence. “And I’m fine, Ms Pillsbury.”

Ms Pillsbury raises her eyebrows doubtfully.

“I’m fine,” Kurt reiterates.

“Just saying that won’t make it true,” Ms Pillsbury tells him softly. “Mercedes was – _is_ – your best friend, Kurt. You don’t have to be okay about everything—”

Ignoring her slip-up, Kurt grits his teeth. “I don’t _need_ to make it true; it _is_ true.”

“If you want to talk, Kurt, my door is always open,” she barrels on. “About _any_ issues that may be bothering you.”

Kurt takes a deep breath. See it as it is. It’s a nice sentiment, but—

Kurt lets out a bitter laugh. “Trust me when I say that you’re _really_ not qualified to be dealing with my issues, Ms Pillsbury.”

He takes advantage of her momentary shock to disappear from the office.

* * *

“So,” Dr Hill, Blaine’s psychologist, says to Blaine. “How’re the meds working?”

Blaine shrugs, running a hand through his heavily gelled hair. “Brutal honesty?” he asks. “They’re not.”

Dr Hill raises his eyebrows above his glasses. “Oh?”

“I’ve woken up screaming six times this week,” Blaine explains. “I think my roommate is about ready to smother me with his pillow.”

Dr Hill – _call me Dave, Blaine_ – generally sees Blaine about once or twice a week, his schedule allowing. In between the official sessions that take place in a secluded room on one of the top floors of Dalton, Blaine’s supposed to email or Skype him on at least two other days each week – supposedly to make sure he hasn’t fallen off the deep end whilst Dr Hill’s back is turned.

They have a … working relationship. Blaine was never going to be the type to be buddy-buddy with his shrink, but all things considered, they get on pretty well.

“Do you want to talk about them?” Dr Hill asks, jotting a note on a pad of paper, and then bringing his eyes back up to Blaine’s face. It’s phrased as a request, but, well, Blaine’s not stupid. He knows it’s more of a command.

Pasting an expression of practised calm onto his face, Blaine takes a deep breath, distances himself from the onslaught of emotions that threaten to flood through him, and begins to run through it all. Scientific. Disconnected.

It’s really the only way he can do this.

“It was dark,” he starts, and Dr Hill nods. This is familiar territory for them both. “And there was this … stale feel to the air. I guess that creeped me out for a bit, because I don’t really dream about sensations other sight a lot, and it threw me.”

Another note – Blaine wonders not for the first time how many of them actually make it into his file. He’s seen it before – the file – and it’s _thick._ At first, he was sort of insulted – he isn’t _that_ screwed up, is he? Then again, maybe he is.

Blaine takes a deep breath and continues, “And then suddenly, there’s this _girl._ I know that you’re not supposed to be able to invent faces in your dreams, but I’d swear that I’d never seen her before. She was, uh, dark-skinned and kind of pretty, I guess. Looked like the type of girl who wore attitude like it was a designer label.”

Dr Hill makes a distracted motion with his hand, telling Blaine to continue.

“For a while it was kind of peaceful as she woke up, like she was being stirred from a long sleep. But then she just seemed to snap awake and all of a sudden she was panicking and freaking out, and slamming her hands against the sides of this box she was trapped in. Then she started to scream. And I screamed too. And I woke up.”

“This was the same dream all six times?” Dr Hill asks, eyebrows raised.

Blaine gets caught between a nod and a shrug, the final gesture not looking much like anything. “Yeah,” he confirms vocally. “I mean sometimes there are differences – like last night. The girl – her face was all bashed up. Her hands kept shaking, and she kept clutching them tighter to herself like she was trying to stop them, but they wouldn’t. And she didn’t scream; she just started sobbing. But—yeah.”

The worst part of therapy, Blaine thinks, is the wait. That moment when he’s finished speaking and Dr Hill just sits there, tapping his biro against his lined pad of paper, and Blaine just _waits_ for the sentence. It’s taken him two years with this guy to stop waiting for him to cart him off to a mental health hospital, but sometimes—

“So I think we should maybe try some different meds,” Dr Hill says. “Or we could revert back to your old ones, but I think you said they were making you sick, right?”

Blaine lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. “I couldn’t keep any food down, yeah,” he agrees, already relaxing. “Really started to freak the school nurse out. She thought I was bulimic.”

Dr Hill smiles a grim smile as he starts to fill out a new prescription for Blaine. Blaine watches him closely as he scrawls out something on a piece of paper in illegible doctor-handwriting.

He can do this, he thinks. He’s always done this. Swallow pills like they’re vitamins. Plaster on a smile with his uniform.

It gets easier.

* * *

Kurt is making his way silently between classes when he feels a hand clamp down over his mouth and a strong arm wrap around his shoulders, dragging him backwards. Adrenalin stabs through Kurt as he’s released from the grip and thrown up against a wall, the pain from the impact ricocheting up his spine.

He blinks up at his captor and resists the urge to role his eyes when he sees a familiar smirk and Mohawk.

“Puck,” Kurt says, flattening his tone to an almost _lethal_ neutrality. “What can I do for you?”

Puck stands rigidly in front of Kurt, arms crossed in a manner that accentuates his admittedly impressive biceps. “Heard you were talking to the police last night, Hummel,” he states. It’s a challenge.

Unfortunately for Puck, Kurt stopped being scared of him a long time ago. “Yes,” he agrees bitingly. “About my friend, _Mercedes._ Who is _missing._ ”

Narrowing his eyes at him, Puck moves forward. “And you didn’t get it into your,” he pauses, tapping Kurt’s temple with a calloused finger, “pretty little head to try and talk about anything else, did you?”

The pungent smell of Puck’s cigarette-stained breath rolls over Kurt like the stench from an overflowing cesspit. He wrinkles his nose and looks anywhere other than directly at the self-professed badass.

“Finn,” Kurt says slowly, “already laid down the rules. So you don’t need to get all up in my face.” Somehow finding his courage, he musters up a half-smirk. “Don’t want to catch the gay, _do you_?”

Puck holds his position for just a few seconds more, before he backs away. “You want to know what your friend’s problem was?” he asks rhetorically. “She couldn’t keep her huge-ass mouth shut. _Literally_ couldn’t keep a secret to save her life.” Puck shakes his head. “But you don’t have that problem, _do you,_ Hummel?”

Kurt feels rage boil up inside him, but bites down on it. An icy glare fixes itself on his visage. “If,” he says, venom dripping off every word. “ _If_ I inherit her problem, then my _mysterious disappearance_ will be the least of your worries, Puckerman.”

With that, he pushes past Puck, making his way to the door when he hears Puck – _always has to have to last word_ – call after him.

“I have friends, Hummel.”

It’s Kurt’s turn to shake his head. “If you even think for one second, Puck, that your so-called friends won’t throw you under the bus in a _second_ to save their own skin…” He twists the door handle. “Then you’re far more naïve than I thought.”

Throwing open the door, Kurt casts a look back at Puck. “See you in Glee.”

* * *

Glee is, in a word, awkward.

Kurt can feel every single member’s eyes on him – can feel the burning of Puck’s glare on his back – and can sense how they want to ask, but really don’t know how. Mr Schue is being unusually silent about it, but Kurt doesn’t contemplate that for long. He’s just glad that Mr Schue hasn’t suddenly decided to change the week’s assignment – fate – to something tactless and tacky, like, _kidnapping._

“Uh, Kurt,” Mr Schue says halfway through their session. “I was just going to say that I know it’s a tough time for you, so, if you want to sing something, the floor is, uh, yours, so to speak.”

The Spanish teacher looks so uncomfortable that at any other time, Kurt would be laughing internally at him. As it is, he doesn’t really feel like doing much of anything – especially singing. So he just shakes his head, and watches Mr Schue deflate.

“Kurt can’t sing for you, Mr S,” Santana announces from across the other room. “The bitch holding his balls is AWOL, so.” She shrugs.

_Fuck you,_ Kurt thinks, but doesn’t say it. He breathes, in and out, in and out, and tries to distance himself from the ugly rage that he can feel eating away at his insides. She’s just trying to be funny – if the delicate smirk painted across her blood-red lips is any indication – and that’s normal. And normal is good.

He can do this.

Kurt turns his icy gaze on her. “Santana,” he says, voice hard and tone level. “Shut up.”

He’s giving her an out. All she has to do is just sit there and continue smirking silently, and Kurt will let it go. An out. He silently begs her to take it.

She doesn’t.

Santana outright _sneers_ at him. “What? Pissed that your beard has legged it?”

Kurt has no idea what he’s thinking as he throws himself at Santana. In fact, he’s pretty sure he simply _isn’t_ thinking. He just wants to hurt her – show her that words can _hurt_ – and before he knows it, he’s on top of her, pulling hair and clawing at her face, and she’s grinning through bloody teeth, and then there are arms around him, and he’s being dragged away from her, and someone’s yelling, but he just—

He doesn’t care anymore.

He’s just _so done_ with all of this.

When he comes back down to the present, he’s pressed in a small heap against a wall, and Finn is in front of him, yelling at the other club members.

“—should back the hell off!” Finn shouts. “He had to _witness_ his best friend being kidnapped, and I don’t know where the hell any of you think you can get off by targeting him!”

Kurt catches Santana rolling her eyes. “It was just a joke, okay?” she says. “I didn’t know Lady Parts was gonna jump me like a freakin’ psycho.”

Kurt blinks at the scene before him – at the guilty faces half his club-mates are sporting – and feels himself clam up. What do they even know, okay? And he doesn’t want their apologies and he doesn’t want their pity. He can’t—

He has to go.

Kurt stands. “I’m going home,” he says to no one in particular.

No one follows him after he leaves.

* * *

“—aine? Blaine? Hello? Earth to Blaine?”

Blaine snaps his head up and blinks expectantly at the crowd of Warblers in front of him. “Uh, sorry,” he says, wincing as the words come out of his mouth. “New meds.”

It says something about the Warblers that none of them so much as flinch at the reminder of Blaine’s circumstances. Wes even goes as far as to visibly breathe a sigh of relief, which Blaine catches him doing and grins pointedly.

“We weren’t talking about anything important,” David inputs helpfully. “Wes was just running some song ideas past us all for the benefit. We were going to have another meeting Saturday morning.”

Blaine shrugs. “I’m happy to sing whatever you guys want,” he tells them, then pauses. “Wait, Saturday?” At the nods from the other members, Blaine shakes his head apologetically. “Sorry, no can do. My parents are coming back into town, so I’m headed home Friday night.”

Wes frowns. “When did this happen?” he asks.

“This morning, actually,” Blaine replies. “They sent me a text before getting on the plane. They should be…” Blaine checks his watch. “Somewhere in India right now.”

“What do you parents even _do,_ Blaine?” David asks incredulously. “I swear they have to be spies or something with the amount of globe-trotting they do.”

Blaine laughs. “Nothing so glamorous,” he explains. “My father owns an oil company, but with the current state of the economy, he’s out on the rigs a lot these days. My mother’s a contract lawyer; she generally goes with him wherever.” Sensing that they’ve strayed a bit from the actual topic of conversation, Blaine shakes his head. “Anyway – song choices. Hit me with them.”

“So, we were thinking something poppy, like Teenage Dream, but maybe with an edge—”

Blaine nods along to the voices of the three Warbler Council members, trying hard to focus on anything but the growing feeling of unease in the pit of his stomach.

* * *

Kurt sleeps like the dead.

He dreams of darkness, of closed spaces, of a growing heat and a burning in his throat. He dreams of screaming, of walls closing in on him, but he doesn’t wake up.

He doesn’t wake up until someone shakes him into consciousness and he has to clamp down on his mouth to stop himself from screaming.

It’s more normal than he would care to admit.

* * *

**24 hours earlier**

* * *

It’s Kurt’s turn to drive to school and, thus, by default, his turn to choose the soundtrack. For the first five minutes of the drive, Kurt flicks between radio stations, trying desperately hard to find something that doesn’t remind him of his missing best friend, but soon gives up when he realises he isn’t getting anywhere.

There still isn’t any information on Mercedes’ whereabouts; instead there’s a growing consensus that they’re not going to find her and, if they do, she probably won’t be alive.

Kurt really isn’t sure how he feels about that.

He keeps trying to move past it, but he _can’t._ It’s still happening to him and every time he thinks he’s pushed it away, something hits him straight in the face and it all comes crashing back to him like a panic attack.

“Uh, Kurt,” Finn pipes up from beside him. “Do you mind if we stop for some coffee?”

Kurt deliberately avoids Finn’s gaze. “Why?”

He can sense Finn’s shrug beside him. “Coach has been working us really hard recently,” the tall teen explains. “So I’m kinda wiped.”

Knuckles whitening around the steering wheel, Kurt grits his teeth at the mention of McKinley High’s famous football team. They took State a few years back and since then…

“You know,” Finn says suddenly, “even with all that happened, you’re still welcome back on the team when—”

Kurt jerks the car to a stop. He turns in his seat, straining against the seatbelt. “Get out,” he commands.

Finn gapes at him. “What? I didn’t—”

“Get out,” Kurt repeats. “Go get your coffee, go play your _games,_ but just _get out._ ”

“Are you serious?”

In place of a reply, Kurt schools his features into an expression that conveys exactly what he wants to say. Finn flinches under his gaze, but silently picks up his school bag and un-plugs his seatbelt.

“Burt’s going to be pissed,” Finn warns.

“I don’t care,” Kurt tells him, shocked to find that it’s the truth. He just _doesn’t care_ anymore.

Kurt waits until Finn’s at least ten metres away before he collapses against the steering wheel and _screams._

He screams until his throat is hoarse – until he’s certain that he’ll never be able to sing again – and then finds himself breaking down into half-choked sobs. He can do this. (How does he do this?) Breathe. In. Out. In. Out. In—

He can’t breathe.

(Why can’t he breathe?)

When he turns his head, he isn’t in his car anymore, with space and open air. He’s trapped, boxed in, and he can smell it, the building stench of—

Out, out, out, out.

Kurt bursts from the car, collapsing into an undignified heap on the ground and retching. He empties his stomach on the ground, by his polished tyre rims, but it feels _good,_ in some sort of way. Like it’s poison he’s getting out of his body – a purge.

He wipes his mouth, breath settling back down and it hits him – how much he hates this. Hates how he can just _vomit_ and it feels _good._ Hates how he _can’t_ move past any of this – move past Mercedes, move past _this._ Hates how it makes him feel weak and pathetic.

But really, he hates how it makes him feel strong most of all.

Kurt hears footsteps behind him and takes a calming breath. “I thought I told you to _leave,_ Finn,” he says, turning.

He doesn’t see Finn’s face.

He doesn’t see the person’s actual face.

He’s hit around the head with tyre iron before any of that can happen.

* * *

There really isn’t any warning.

One second, Blaine is jumping around the practice room, and the next his eyes are rolling back into his head and he’s falling.

His head smacks against the wooden floor with a severe thud.

* * *

It’s _her_ again. The girl.

She doesn’t fight, though. Her broken fingers close around empty space, and she slowly draws in one, last, shaky breath.

* * *

Blaine gasps awake, eyes snapping open.

He’s in an unfamiliar bed, lying down on sheets that feel far too clean. Turning his head, he meets the face of the unimpressed school nurse.

“You passed out,” she informs him bluntly.

“Uh, okay,” Blaine says, swinging his legs so he can get out of bed.

“You need to eat more,” the school nurse – Nurse Jennifer, as her nametag tells Blaine – says dully. “You have low blood pressure, and I’m honestly getting sick of seeing you in that bed.”

“Sure,” Blaine agrees easily as he laces his school shoes up. “Will do.”

He’s halfway out the door when she catches his arm.

“Blaine?” Nurse Jennifer says. “I think maybe you should go home for the rest of the day.”

Blaine looks at her, swallowing thickly as he does, before he quietly nods his head.

* * *

When Blaine wakes up screaming that night, he’s alone.

There’s a part of him that thinks it’s preferable.

* * *

**Present**

* * *

Blaine pads downstairs, yawning deeply. It’s a Saturday, but he’s never really been the type to sleep in. As he shuffles about the kitchen, fetching a glass of orange juice from the fridge, he turns on the news.

And freezes.

_“The body of Mercedes Jones was found in the early hours of this morning, after the teenager had been reported missing nearly forty hours earlier—”_

It’s _her._

The glass slips from between his fingers and smashes on the floor.

* * *

Kurt awakes to darkness and the smell of musk.

It feels like a nightmare.

And, oh God, he’s going to _die_.


	2. Spectra Part One: Friday

**FRIDAY**

* * *

 

Finn shifts uneasily under the scrutiny he faces from Burt, his mom and the police officers assigned to his brother’s case. There are two of them – police officers, that is – one woman and one man. Finn can’t remember anything about either of their names, except for the fact that the woman’s was disastrously difficult to pronounce and that they’d introduced themselves in this oddly in-sync manner.

Not sure at all what sort of expression he’s supposed to be wearing right now, Finn glances upwards to Burt. His step-dad is wound tight – silently furious, Finn recognises – and looks ready to snap at any second.

“When was the last time you saw your brother?” the female police officer – Officer Micro? Mika? – asks.

Finn takes a deep breath. “We were, uh, driving to school,” he recounts. “And I wanted to grab some coffee, ‘cause I was tired from football practice, and I guess that pissed Kurt off because he jerked the car to a stop and told me to get out.”

The two police officers share a look. “And then?”

“I got out, walked to get my coffee and called my friend Puck to come pick me up.” Finn shrinks slightly, then admits, “I didn’t even realise Kurt wasn’t at school until lunch.”

“We found vomit by the driver’s side door,” the female officer says. “Was it Kurt’s?”

“I don’t know,” Finn says.

“Do you know why Kurt might have thrown up?” she presses.

“I don’t know,” Finn repeats. He doesn’t get why they’re doing this – focusing on one tiny detail instead of doing their stupid jobs and finding his brother.

To Finn’s side, Burt moves. “Kurt’s claustrophobic,” he explains. “He’s been getting panic attacks for about a year now. He’s normally alright in cars and stuff, but sometimes he gets worked up about something and snaps.”

The male police officer frowns. “Should he have been driving in that case?” he asks.

“Kurt knows—” A strange, strangled sound comes from Burt’s throat. Finn’s mom tightens her grip on his hand. “Kurt knows what to do if it happens,” Burt finishes.

The female police officer taps her pen against her notepad. “And who were Kurt’s friends at school?” she asks.

Finn shrugs. “Mercedes,” he says, then winces. “And he started hanging out with Santana after,” Finn pauses, gathers his words and then continues. “After he quit the football team.”

Carol inhales and wipes her eyes. “Kurt joined the cheerleading squad,” she informs the officers helpfully. “He really loved it.”

Another note is jotted down. “Enemies?”

Very much aware of Burt’s eyes on him, Finn shrugs. “Kurt kind of kept to himself.”

* * *

 

Officer Maria Micalopolou has been investigating missing persons cases for five years, and specialising in missing minors for just under three.

This isn’t going to be an easy case, she knows that right now. Teenagers going missing – that sort of case isn’t as uncommon as people would think, but most of those are disgruntled runaways. They pack up their bags and skip town – either to get hitched in another state, or to escape their home situations.

But, at the end of the day, they’re just teenagers. They slip up, make a mistake, and then Maria and her partner – Officer Edward Hendrikson – are there, ready to take whatever action is required next.

Cases like Kurt Hummel’s are somewhat rarer.

Because Kurt Hummel didn’t go _missing._ Kurt Hummel _disappeared._

And it’s Maria’s job to patch together _how._

“Kurt?” Santana Lopez frowns at them. She’s the picture of a high-school cheerleader – a perfect body, a perfect smile, perfect hair. Behind her are her parents, a straight-faced couple who seem to face each and every one of their teenage daughter’s attitudinal problems with a practised indifference. “What about him?”

“You two were friends,” Maria prompts, sharing a sideways glance with Edward.

“Yeah,” Santana tells them, nodding. “ _Were_ being the operative word. I mean, after Kurt quit the football team, yeah, he and I were on the cheerleading squad together, but it wasn’t like we had each other’s friendship charms or anything. And after he dropped out of the Cheerios, we just didn’t see each other as much.”

Edward frowns. “Why did he quit cheerleading?”

Santana snorts. “Hell if I know,” she says. “One second everything’s fine, we’re stretching out before practice, the next he’s screaming at Coach Sylvester in this whacked out mix of French and English – crying too – and the next day, he’s off the squad.”

Maria hums to herself and makes another note on her pad of paper.

“Look,” Santana tells them. “Kurt and I – yeah, there was a time when we did each other’s nails and talked about boys, but he’s moved onto a different crowd now and I don’t really fit into that one.”

“Who?”

Santana rolls her eyes. “Mercedes Jones, Artie Abrams, Tina Cohen-Chang.”

* * *

 

Maria and Edward interview Tina Cohen-Chang, a pretty Asian girl with a penchant for the colour black, and her sort-of-ex-boyfriend Artie Abrams together. The pair of them are the picture of diversity, and Maria wonders just how many minorities Kurt’s shifting friendships have managed to cover over the past year.

“I really want to help you find Kurt,” Tina insists, hands clasped tightly on her lap, “but I really don’t think we’ll be much help.”

“Kurt kind of cut us off,” Artie elaborates. “He kind of cut everybody off. Like, six months ago, he had this massive breakdown in the choir room. He was like, shaking and crying and shit—”

“ _Language_ , Artie _,_ ” Mallory Abrams, Artie’s mother, tuts disapprovingly behind him.

“Mr Schue tried to get him to calm down,” Tina picks up from Artie, “but Kurt just went _ballistic—_ ”

“He legit punched Mr Schue in the face,” Artie adds. “Mercedes was the only one of us there that was able to get him to stop screaming.”

“After that he just kind of…” Tina shrugs, “blanked us. Like we’d try and talk to him in the hallways, but he wasn’t interested. We were really worried he was going to off himself or something.”

Maria shares a look with Edward. “So Mercedes was the only one who was able to get through to him?”

Artie and Tina share a look before nodding. “Yeah,” Tina says. “But I don’t think Mercedes really knew what was up with him either. She said if she pushed he’d just cut her out too.”

Maria sighs. “And did Kurt have any enemies?”

Tina and Artie share another look, before speaking in unison. “The football team.”

* * *

It’s dark by the time that Maria and Edward finish their rounds of the Lima crowd, topping the already long day off with several arduous interviews with Kurt’s teachers – half of whom hadn’t the foggiest idea who they were talking about.

Maria slouches in the passenger seat of their cruiser as she flips through the day’s interview notes by the light of her phone, Edward’s eyes focused on the dimly lit road ahead of them.

“So the Hummel kid was best friends with the other girl who went missing,” Edward says from the driver’s seat. “Coincidence?”

Maria shrugs noncommittally. “Maybe,” she says. “But the Jones girl has been missing for several days now and I don’t like what that says about our chances of finding the Hummel kid before it’s too late.”

“They sounded like they were close,” Edward comments.

Maria rolls her eyes. “They were _isolated,_ Ed,” she corrects. “You saw how clueless Kurt’s father was about his social life, and his brother was just as bad. Half of the teachers only knew him as ‘the gay kid’ and the other half didn’t even clue in after we mentioned that lovely moniker. The only person who would have any idea what could have caused Kurt to go missing is Mercedes Jones, and vice versa.”

Edward sighs, flexing his fingers around the steering wheel. “Much as I hate to say it,” he starts. “Kurt is gay and Mercedes is black – could this be some kind of hate crime gone wrong?”

Maria shrugs. “For now, let’s not jump to any conclusions,” she says, but is interrupted by the loud buzzing of her iPhone. She answers it with a curt, “Officer Micalopolou.”

Edward flickers his gaze over to Maria as she nods her way through the phone call, narrowing his eyes slightly when he spots a flash of disconcertion pass over her face.

“Okay,” Maria says. “Thank you for the heads up.”

She hangs up and turns to Edward. “Turn around,” she says.

Edward complies. “Why?”

“That was Detective Sanderson. Mercedes Jones has just been found dead.”


End file.
